The Sun Never Sets
by Jimmy Collins
Summary: He awoke with bound wrists and the taste of the sea in his mouth. Off to his right, somebody screamed to a backdrop of cruel laughter. It gets worse. WARNING: graphic depictions of torture, not for the faint of heart. Two-Shot.
1. The Sun Never Sets

**A/N: Firstly, this is intended as a present for my good friend FallingStarXan. Happy Birthday: enjoy my single-characteristic people. It's the first thing that broke through my apathy-induced writers' block. Secondly, it receives its rating due to the torture scenes and is NOT for the weak of heart. I was... depressed when I wrote this. I think it's fluff – I'm not sure, as I don't generally write the stuff, and I damn well don't read it either. As far as I can tell, it is, though. It's dark, terrifying, depressing fluff, but it's fluff nonetheless. Thirdly, it is very AU, and there may or may not be several anachronisms. That's not my problem, O History Nerds, so you lot can go 'stick your head up a duck's bottom', as Commander Sam Vimes says. Fourthly, if you've no idea who that is, you aren't even worth the trouble of insulting. **

**Update: I'm posting this early, since I've totally ruined the surprise aspect of it. It was originally going to be a one-shot, but the concept requires a little more explanation, lest it become just a little more gratuitous gore. **

**And, as I mentioned above, this is VERY gory and not for the faint-of-heart. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. **

The man shifted his arms. His wrists already hurt from the rough cord binding his hands behind his back, and his feet to his hands, but he knew that if he could just get loose (perhaps by dislocating his thumb, it seemed now), he may be able to slip his hands out of his bindings. Then, he could start on his feet, and, perhaps, surprise one of the pirates, take hold of a sword, and…

Well, if he was to be perfectly honest with himself, what followed would probably be his spectacular demise, or, worse, recapture. He knew, however, what would happen if he didn't escape.

"Aaaaargh!" The scream came from somewhere to his right, but he didn't flinch, didn't even turn his head. They had been torturing the dark man with the turban for hours now. After him, it was the black-haired boy's turn, then his. He had been unconscious earlier, so he didn't really know who had been here before the man with the turban, but from the blood on the deck, it looked as if there had been more.

The deck pitched suddenly as an unexpected wave rolled by, and his hand slipped back into the rope. Gritting his teeth, he began once again the task of sliding the coarse rope up past skin already red and bleeding from friction.

"Damn wave. I missed. It's _your fault_ I missed."

There were a few grunts, and the sound of hard leather hitting flesh. The speaker had punctuated his point with a few well-aimed kicks.

"How many fengernails ha' e got left?"

"Three, heh heh."

There was another shriek. The man with the turban's breathing became noticeably more laboured.

"Two, heh heh heh."

"Hah! How d'yer like that, then? How d'yer like that, ye savage? Ha! Ye want us gone, then? Ye wants us ter leave ye aloon? I'll show yer nonvi'lent rresistance."

Another scream, this time longer and more prolonged, and ending in a sort of gurgling noise.

"Knife?"

"Therr ye go."

The man with the turban screamed again, and then began sobbing. He made gabbling noises, sounds that could have been speech, if his tongue hadn't been cut out. They'd tossed it at the third prisoner's feet, and he had shuddered and kicked it away.

"Tha 'as yer eye, ye darrky. Let's see if tha'athr one pops tha same."

Another explosion of agony. The man with the bound wrists shut his eyes behind wireframe spectacles – at least they'd allowed him to keep those. Or, perhaps he wasn't so lucky they'd allowed him to keep them. Unable to help himself, he'd seen every detail of their initial brutalisation of the man with the turban in crystal clarity. Now, he shut his eyes tightly and did not watch.

So, he heard, rather than saw, a door creak open above the sound of the waves. There was some scuffling as the torturers stood to attention, he guessed. Filled with a sort of dead curiosity, he opened his eyes.

A man had walked onto the deck of the ship, but did not look as though he belonged there. The others wore rough clothes – bandanas, open shirts, and, in the case of the thickly-accented Scotsman, a dirty kilt. This man was dressed in a clean black suit and waistcoat, with an impeccable white silk shirt and a red tie. He wore a black top hat and a golden tiepin, and matching cufflinks. He carried a cane, but did not look as if he needed it. The chain of his fob-watch gleamed in the weak sunlight.

His eyes were the most striking, though. They were fiery green, and burned from beneath a mane of golden hair and thick, dark eyebrows. His expression was surprisingly blank – it could have been composed indifference, or perhaps a detached aloofness. His eyes, however, were like liquid green fire. They roared and roiled with something the prisoner could not entirely identify.

He walked slowly to the men standing at attention and fixed his gaze upon the red-haired one with the kilt. The bound prisoners watched him in mute silence. For a moment, the only sound was the ragged breathing of the man in the turban.

The man with the green eyes sighed and said in surprisingly refined Queen's English, "You're relieved."

"But… but, we haen't finished-"

"You're _relieved_," the green-eyed one repeated.

The men looked at one another uncertainly a moment, then saluted as one. "Aye, Captain." They then made their way below decks, and did not even look back at their handiwork.

The captain then turned to the broken lump of a prisoner before him, a lump that'd had everything human beaten, torn, and cut out of it, until it was simply a mass of pain, nothing more. An unfamiliar emotion flickered in his eyes. It might have been rage, but it was cold rage, without the fire or the hatred. It might have been betrayal, yet it was somehow undirected, curled inward like a frightened bird. It might have been pity, but it was hard and angry. It flickered there, a strange mix of understanding and resignation, and vanished. The mask slid into place once more.

He made some movement that the bespectacled man didn't quite see, but there was a sort of relieved sigh, the first sound he'd heard in a while from that man which wasn't laboured, and the ragged breathing halted. And the bespectacled man was glad.

The captain then made his way over to the next prisoner. The man with the glasses could see this prisoner out of the corner of his eyes. He was dark-haired and brown-eyed, and he did not look well. His skin was altogether far too pale, with a sickly greyish tint to it, and it was covered in a layer of sweat despite the cool morning. He also shook slightly in his bindings, a tremble that wasn't due to fear.

When he looked up at the captain, however, his face sank into an expression that was one part terror, one part apprehension, and one part relief. He had spent the last three hours dreading what would happen once they finished the man with the turban and started on him. His guts twisted themselves into knots, but his heart rose as he looked up into the other man's face.

The captain took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood off of his knife carefully. "Hello, Hong Kong," he said, so softly that the bespectacled man nearly missed it.

Some people can smile without smiling; their mouth grins, but their eyes remain cold, so it becomes a grimace. The captain did the opposite: his mouth and face retained their aloof blankness, but somewhere in his eyes there was a kind smile. "Why are you here?"

"I…I…" There was a sharp intake of breath. Hong Kong closed his eyes and bowed his head, unable to go on, and his trembling grew stronger. The captain nodded in understanding.

"What were they going to do to you?"

Hong Kong looked up gratefully and tried to stabilise his breathing. "Thank you... thank you... thank you for driving them away... You have no idea... They were going to- GAAAH!"

With a quick motion, the captain had removed his knife from the handkerchief and stabbed it into Hong Kong's hand, pinning it to the wood beneath. Hong Kong stared at the knife and screamed again, partially out of pain, mostly out of surprise. The Captain winced. "Stop screaming, you git," he said. "I can't stand screaming."

Hong Kong stared up at the man he evidently thought to be his saviour. He screamed again, but it wasn't quite like a scream. This was an emotion welling up that needed voice given it, but that no words could have described. The bespectacled prisoner thought it was the sound of someone screaming out of confusion, though that was not exactly the right word.

"I said _stop screaming!_" cried the Captain, and he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew another shining knife. It moved quickly, flashing for a moment in the sun, and then the screaming stopped. The Captain stood there a moment, shivered, and shut his eyes tightly, his eyebrows huddling together. He brought a hand up and covered his mouth and breathed through his nose, at first quite heavily, then softer.

Hong Kong looked at the blood running down his neck. He opened his mouth and tried to cry out again, but there was no sound, only a wheezing gasp. He tried to scream again as he realised what his captor had done, but could not. The Captain had cut his vocal cords.

The man with the spectacles shut his eyes and worked all the more fervently at his ropes – all thought of escape was lost to him at this point. He simply wanted to block out Hong Kong's laboured attempts to scream.

The captain removed his hand from his mouth, and his face returned to its normal blankness. He looked critically at his knife and examined the blood smeared across the blade. He bit his lip, deep in thought. Then, he nodded, having apparently decided something. He knelt down by Hong Kong's side a moment, and the bespectacled man heard a horrible sound.

It was a sort of prolonged 'h' sound. Soundless, voiceless, Hong Kong was screaming.

"Mmm," said the captain. "Here we go."

There was a snort, and a sort of urgent gasp.

"Well, if you wouldn't do that, this would be so much easier. You've only yourself to blame."

"hhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"I wouldn't call those feet... On the bright side, now your toes are technically longer."

"_hhhhhhhhhhhh_"

"Hmm, yes, I can't think of a good use for longer toes either. Oh, for heaven's sakes: can't you bleed somewhere else?"

"hhhhhhhh-shhhhh-hhhhhh"

The worst part, really, was how damn methodical he was about this.

"Do you know why I'm doing this," he asked. "No? What about you?"

The man with the spectacles flinched as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, then. Look at me, at the very least."

Moving as little as possible, he looked up at the captain over the edge of his glasses and through his wheat-blonde hair.

"There," he said softly, and his face was kind. "Why am I doing this," he asked.

He couldn't manage a shrug, so he shook his head instead.

"Well," he said. "That makes two of us."

He stood up, dabbed irritably at a small red stain on his coat, and walked back to Hong Kong, who had begun struggling again, leaning over with his teeth to pull the knife out of his hand. His mouth closed over the wrought handle and something smeared on it that was not quite saliva and not quite mucus, but some mixture of the two. The knife landed with a heavy thud on the wooden deck. As he saw the blood spurt from his wounded appendage, he opened his mouth in an expression of agony and began hissing. The man with the spectacles honestly couldn't say which he hated more: the 'h' noises, or the hissing.

"Watch: this is why." The captain ignored Hong Kong, took hold of a great sack, and opened it for his prisoners to see. "This is the gold I won from Spain. Look: a celebration. I've been saving this just for you."

He lifted the sack, grunting and bracing it against the wooden rail. Change spilt everywhere. Then, slowly, the sack tipped over the edge and fell into the ocean below. Coins tinkled into the water in a great golden waterfall. The Captain whooped.

"Look at me!" he cried. "I'm the greatest country in the world." He grinned at the bespectacled man, who turned away and closed his eyes tightly.

"Look at me," he repeated. Then, when his captive did not obey, a sort of rage filled his eyes, and he grasped his prisoner's hair tightly in one hand and twisted his head roughly. "Look at me," he growled. "They say," he began, "the sun never sets on this face." His grip tightened, and the prisoner winced as the roots of his hair screamed in protest. "You're not looking at me," the captain observed. "You should show me," he growled softly, his voice sliding across the prisoner's face and into his ear like a snake, "some respect." The prisoner's heart pounded in his ears, the beat flooding down through the veins in his neck, his arms, bringing with it that terror. His nostrils flared as he fought the desire to pull away; he knew the consequences that would follow if he did. The captain brought his face down, closer, closer, so that their eyes were mere centimetres away, and the prisoner held his breath. Steeling himself, shoulders rising about his neck, he looked into the captain's dark eyes.

They were a singularly vibrant green, and they sparkled strangely. The captain's face was still blank, almost expressionless but for the tension in his jaw. His eyes, however, were terrifying to behold. They were like fire and ice and boiling rain. The worst thing was that, somewhere, the prisoner could still see that kind smile the orbs had held when he'd regarded the unfortunate Hong Kong. It was gentle, compassionate, some strange cousin to mercy, but somehow, something had been drained from it until it was just a dead shell. It was the smile of a child who comes home to find her mother brutally murdered. It was the dead look of someone who hadn't the energy to change his gaze.

They regarded each other in that way for a moment, the captor and his captured, and the bound one was frightened to think of what his imprisoner saw in his own blue eyes.

The captain relaxed his hand, the fistful of blond hair sliding out and his prisoner's head lolling over to the side. The glasses bounced along the deck, lost and forgotten. With his other hand, the captain swept the top hat off of his head and placed it on his prisoner's. He brushed a stray tuft of hair out of his captive's eyes and dabbed at the sweat on his face with the handkerchief. "I don't think there's a reason for anything, anymore," he said softly, almost kindly, but there was pain and betrayal in his eyes. The mask cracked; were those tears he saw? "Everybody's left me."

Suddenly, his eyes were simply dead green circles once more, and his face, blank, but for a detatched boredom. He straightened up, took back his hat, and delivered a savage kick to the ribs. He nodded at the two prisoners and said "And now, I believe, I shall retire. Scotland?" he called into the door. He crushed the glasses under his heel as he left.

And then, there was pain. The sun climbed ever higher into the sky, burning the fog away and beating down on the prisoners' backs. They were tied such that it was either suffer a terrifying glare, or neck aches. The blonde wasn't sure what caused him greater discomfort – and, anyways, his myopia pained him terribly. Sometimes the captain would come back. Sometimes he would watch, and sometimes he would not. Sometimes, he would do much, much more. But always, the sun climbed lazily in the sky, rising and rising to an apex, and somehow continuing its ascent. Or, perhaps it simply circled languidly. Time stretched, so it was difficult to be certain. It really was true, what they said. The sun never sets on the British Empire.


	2. God Save Us All

**A/N: This shall be less gory than the previous chapter. I'm thinking that I really ought to add another chapter later on, though. I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, though, so I may simply add to it as I see fit. **

The being that was the soul of America lay on his side. The plank under his face was hot from the many hours of sun, and the salt in the air left his lips feeling swollen and cracked, and his tongue, a fat purple mass that hardly fit into his mouth. His face pounded with heat, and every cubic centimetre of his body ached.

He'd lain on the slick boards when they'd left. Now, they were dry, but his hair, formerly soaked in the stuff, was crusted over, and his face, sticky with the clotted remains of his own blood. The sun's glare stabbed into his naked blue eyes and gave him a terrible headache, but he no longer cared. In a vague sort of way, he wondered what he would do for a glass of water, now.

The waves pounded, as they had for what seemed like thousands of years. The ship rocked in time with the beat, and America found the feeling strangely comforting. He wasn't comfortable, by any means: he was tied so that he couldn't even turn his head away from the sun's glare. But the rocking of the waves was one of a very few sensations that didn't actively cause him pain, like a strange lullaby.

A lullaby… Suddenly, he shifted slightly. He'd thought he'd heard… no, he hadn't. It was just a ghost of memory, coming to taunt him.

But then, there it was again. Yes… it was… a sound beneath the wash of the waves. It was more than a sound: it was a tune, a song. As he struggled to listen, it grew stronger. For the first time in god-knows-how-long, his heart was filled with something that could be akin to hope. He _recognised_ that song.

How did it go again? Pain had stretched the hours into days, years, and the agony of the time he'd been here had atrophied his mind to imbecility. His sluggish brain struggled to recall the words that went with the melody. It was a song very familiar to him; it was written into his soul, almost.

There it was! He _remembered_. How could he have ever forgotten? Breathless, he caught the verse round the middle with his mind.

_Sweet land of liberty: of thee I sing,_

_Land where my fathers died,_

_Land of the Pilgrims' Pride,_

_From every mountainside, let freedom ring!_

The other voice grew louder, more confident. If America had been listening closely, he would have detected a note of hysteria in the words, words he still could not hear. The tune, however, was unforgettable, and he drew the lyrics from somewhere in his heart.

_My native country, thee, _

_Land of the noble free! Thy name I love; _

"That's me!" thought America. "They love my name! Someone's coming for me!" At this, he felt his resolve return. The hero couldn't be caught like this, dead inside. America never gave up!

_I love thy rocks and rills;_

Then, there was a crash, some shouted words, and a period of painful silence.

America struggled against his bonds, but to no avail. Where was the song? Why had it stopped?

He waited. The sun was now very painful, the rocking motion made him slightly nauseous, and the waves, agonising and distracting. Maybe… maybe he couldn't hear the song, as it'd been vanquished by the noise of the sea.

He shut his eyes tightly and tried to listen. Hope was truly a terrible thing: he thought that his chest would burst. His ribs throbbed, and the ugly gashes in his back burned cold and painful. He was sure he had sunburn on his face and arms.

Someone was coming for him, right? They wouldn't simply abandon him, not after all this. No, they must have been waylaid somehow. Perhaps they'd caught a glimpse of England, or one of his brutish brethren, and were even now hiding away.

What of the crash, though? What of the shout? If there'd been a scuffle, it certainly hadn't lasted long.

No, he couldn't allow himself to think that. He clamped down on the thought, but it surfaced anyways: _England's the strongest nation in the world, and he's in his element here at sea. _

What if his mysterious rescuer had run across the sea-captain? What if he'd been defeated, to be brought up here and subjected to the same pain as the rest of the prisoners?

What if he was dead?

No! He couldn't be! He couldn't be dead, not after all this! Okay, sometimes the hero needed rescuing, but that was so that he and his sidekick could unite, and he could beat up the evil empire with his supreme badassery. They needed an epic battle scene! It was cheating, killing the sidekick before he managed to free the hero. They wouldn't have the epic battle scene! He struggled all the more against the ropes holding him fast, grunting in pain, trying his best to ignore the feeling of the coarse rope against his red and peeling skin, the skin against which the sun had wrought such violence.

Gasping in pain and betrayal, America's struggle ended as suddenly as it had begun. He slumped in his ropes.

Nobody was coming.

He couldn't quite believe it at first. He'd been abandoned.

It was all over. He was going to be here till he died. There was no hope at all, anymore. Nobody cared. Truly, he was alone.

America blinked. Under the sound of his whimpering, under the crash of the waves, he heard a sound.

It was the song. It'd started up again. He still couldn't make out the words, so faint was the voice, but the shape of the tune nonetheless betrayed the verses.

He nearly laughed out loud. What an idiot he'd been! The American Spirit can't be so easily beaten. What had he been thinking of, giving up?

He worked all the more fervently at the ropes. The hero had to be ready. While he struggled, he sang the words out loud, working at the knots in time to the music.

Somewhere below the main deck, the singer of the song stopped and listened. Sure enough, someone else was singing along with him. His eyes widened. Someone was singing with him. Someone else was actually singing with him, singing a song that might as well have been engraved onto his heart. He looked down at the bottle of cheap rum he had smashed.

He dragged himself up off the floor, knocking over a few other bottles – empty, thankfully. He made his way over to the door and staggered out onto the deck, singing as loudly as he could. He wasn't even barely listening to the words the other man sang, he was so amazed, simply amazed, at the sheer joy of not being alone.

The two voices rose into the sky, unconsciously falling into a sort of harmony.

_My country, 'tis of thee / God save our gracious queen_

_Sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing; / Long live our noble queen, God save the queen: _

_Land where my fathers died / Send her victorious,_

_Land of the pilgrims' pride / Happy and glorious,_

_From every mountainside, let freedom ring / long to reign over us, God save the queen!_

The two men stopped and stared at one another. Hope really was a terrible thing.

Then, suddenly, England began to laugh. He laughed and laughed, a sound that was part bark and part shriek. Tears began to spill from his eyes. "You git!" he cried, wiping his face, "You stole… you borrowed…" he couldn't finish the sentence, he was laughing so hard. "You took the tune of my anthem," he choked out at last. "To think that I thought…" his laughter degenerated into a fit of coughing. He leaned heavily on the railing, but something about it seemed to enrage him. With a roar, he ripped the balustrade from the ship in a splintering of wood, and threw it into the sea with all his strength.

He turned around and met America's eyes. They were like the eyes of a blind man: bright and dead and blue and unseeing. His mouth hung slightly open, and he looked as if every part of him was sagging.

England began to chuckle again. He smirked sardonically at his former colony, and kicked him in the ribs. The other man gasped in pain.

He then turned and sauntered off the deck, singing softly as he left.

_Oh, Lord, our God, arise_

He smiled slightly, and there was something hard in his eyes.

_Scatter her enemies, _

_And make them fall. _

A look of rage passed across England's face so quickly that America wasn't sure he hadn't simply missed it.

_Confound their politics,_

_Frustrate their knavish tricks, _he winked at America as he opened the door,

_On thee our _"_hopes_"_, we fix, _he made air quotes, the words dripping with sarcasm.

_God save us all. _

England stumbled back into his quarters. He was shaking for some reason. The strange sense of triumph he'd had earlier was draining from him, leaving him empty once more.

He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. His mind returned to perfect calmness. Yes: that was the word for it – _perfect_ calmness, like the smooth grey surface of a pond. It was only the energy of crushing America's spirit that made his breathing so uncontrolled, and it was out of the victory he'd won that he was now twisting the sheet between his hands so hard they hurt.

He sighed. Unbidden, the last line he'd sung came to his lips.

_God save us all._

**A/N: There. I wrote fluff the last chapter, and a songfic this chapter. Whatever has gotten into me? In any event, am I the only one who is surprised to find out that the Americans have copied our anthem in order to write a patriotic song of their own? It was sort of funny, and so I knew I simply had to write a story about it: I had to look up quite a lot of lyrics, though. (**) Actually, the second verse of God Save the Queen is rather confrontational. **


	3. They That Walk in Darkness

The hands came.

They always did. Presumably, they were attached to wrists, which, in turn, were attached to arms, shoulders, _people_, but the people were so alien, so far off, that they were hardly real.

The hands, however, were very real, to the point that they may have been the only real thing in the mass of fuzzy, half-consciousness that made up the world. They were a sort of on-going effect, like the rocking of the waves, or the sun beating down on the world, and had as much intelligence and malice behind them. They were a certainty as much as pain was a certainty, for the hands were equivalent to pain.

He expected no reason for such agony, and none was given him, so he did not resent it. One may as well resent the sun.

The men with the hands walked away, and it seemed they walked away into the swimming darkness of nonreality. They would solidify once more, and come back for him. They always did. He felt as he did once long before, when the cannons roared in the night. No cannons roared now, and night never fell. The memories stirred: _I'_m England, and _you_'re America, my little colony. But I don't want to be your colony anymore! I've sent you a signed letter to tell you. I'm not a child: I've ever so many signatures. 'Hancock', 'Adams'… but none actually said 'America'. Or, was that even really his name? _I_'m the Union, and _you'_re the Confederacy, or was it the other way round? It's so hard to tell, now. It didn't matter: they'd been reabsorbed.

The hands came back. They were hard and cold and hot and cruel, and they did terrible things to his feet and knees, and laid stripes of pain across his back and arms. Something happened to his throat: it felt thick and heavy, and suddenly there was a bad taste in his mouth, and a slickness on the deck. His stomach felt light, floated like his bones, though not in an altogether pleasant way.

The hands had moved upwards to his face, and he had no strength to prepare himself. Somehow, the pain never came. They bore him no agony, but instead held something insistently to his lips. Water. How long had he dreamed of the stuff? Sip, sip, swirl in mouth, spit back out. He couldn't take it in. Don't you understand? My people are dying! We have no food, no rations, nothing to drink. Don't waste this on me, General Washington. Someone else needs it more. We've got to win the fight against England. And it seemed the face of the man holding the cup to his lips was that of his Founding Father. He opened his mouth to tell him it would be better spent elsewhere, but, though he spoke, it made no sound. It was as if his words were a bubble light that floated a long way away.

The water came again, and he refused it. _Give it to Tess; she's sick, she needs it more. Give it to Andrew; he's walked for days, here, and he won't last much longer. Give it to Thomas; he's gone without for so long, we all have. _

They splashed it on his face. Why did they do that? It was ever so bitterly cold: he was freezing, but a layer of sweat coated his body. Boston winters were terrible, if one hadn't even proper uniforms. The voices came again, but he couldn't tell what they were saying, so distant were they.

_You're ill. _The man's hair was dark, and his features commanded respect, but his clothing was ragged. _I'm not sick_, he protested, _I can beat England, _and the man's clothing was suddenly impeccable, and he sported shaggy golden hair and thick, dark eyebrows.

There had been so many redcoats in the woods, bright and shining like drops of blood. He didn't display his troops thusly, and his blood was hidden inside his heart and veins, but he hadn't enough guns or food or, yes, water. The man - England was in front of him, and he felt their troops clashing. He'd surprised his elder brother, hidden as he was in the trees, and delivered a crushing blow to the kidneys.

England was strong, though, stronger than he'd ever hope to be; an Empire, no less, and shrugged off the knock as if it'd been a feather-fall. He whirled around and caught the young America across the jaw.

America managed to dodge the next blow: he was quicker than his opponent, but far less powerful. England was direct, and his punches delivered a force enough to shatter trees. America ducked, and a splintering of wood behind him betrayed England's rage.

_I did everything I could for you, and you attack me! I protected you, taught you, and gave you shelter. This is how you repay me?_

America delivered a flurry of blows, but none of them even seemed to affect the older nation. _You squashed me, controlled me, and took away my freedom. I can pay for your wars, oh yes, but I can't have a say in my own future? Give me liberty, or give me death!_

_Perhaps I shall, you insolent little bastard! When we get home, I'll have some serious thought about how to teach you respect._

England delivered a punch to America's chest, and he flew backwards, sprawling against a tree. His back ached, and he had splinters all along his shoulders and arms, strips of red pain. _Now, then, little colony,_ he snarled, advancing. America steeled himself and shook the stars from his vision.

_America,_ England growled, _what year is it?_

_That's why I'll beat you_, he laughed, despite the pain in his chest. It felt as if he could hardly breathe, like there was something in his throat. His skin felt hot and cold again. _It's 1782. How do you expect to control me if you can't even remember the year?_

His vision seemed to double: there were two Englands, superimposed upon one another, but both looked uncharacteristically dishevelled. This was somewhat worrisome: England was always neat. Perhaps through his little war he had hurt his brother more than he had believed. At the thought, his stomach felt light again, and floated around his insides. He was made of jelly, it seemed, a half-liquid mass in which his bones and organs floated. One England's brow furrowed in an expression of worry, and the other's lowered in a visage of hate.

_You're delirious,_ one said, though he could not tell which one. That made no sense: delirium was caused by fever, wasn't it? He wasn't feverish: he felt as if he'd freeze where he lay. It was that damn Boston winter. But, then, the brighter England vanished, and the other growled and made to smash him into oblivion.

The sky was made of wood and the earth, damp silk. It was wonderfully dark. It smelled nice here, like sandalwood, but there was a damp, organic, acrid scent underneath. He was rocking back and forth, like he had cradled in England's arms as a child long ago, and there was a softness surrounding him. England had been so big, then. He'd held the little American Colony in his arms and shushed him as he cried. _It's the ghosts,_ he clung to his protector, _They'll come for me!_

_Hush, little America. I'll make sure they don't get you._ The larger nation hummed a little tune, and he felt himself dropping off.

But then, the gentle lullaby had turned into the sound of rage and fury and the wind in his ears. He'd out-manoeuvred his enemy, caught him at musket-point.

_All I want is my freedom_, he called out raggedly. _I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!_

The Empire stood up suddenly and charged at him. He was so surprised, he couldn't even react. It was more than that, though. Even with his former brother caught in his sights, his finger tightening on the trigger, he couldn't fire. England swept the musket out of his hands with the end of his bayonet, and held the rifle to his head.

_You idiot! _His voice had an odd resonance to it, as if more than one identical voice said the same words. _Why can't you follow anything through? It's not 1783! We're not fighting: you're in my quarters, and I'm _trying_ to make you better. Why can't you listen to me! _

_I… I don't understand._

England was nearly in tears. _You're already independent! You've already won! Why can't you see? You can't die! You're a world superpower! It isn't fair. I hate you! I hate everything about you! Now, you've to fall bloody ill, worse than ill, and vomit all over _my_ sheets and _my _bedroom, and you haven't the gratitude and common decency to get better, you little twat! If you die, I swear I'll fucking resurrect you so I can kill you myself! _

The world was fading to blackness, and night fell on the muddy field. He found he didn't have a response to this: it wasn't that he couldn't form the words, though he doubted he could. He didn't even have the energy to think of anything to say. His own men seemed to desert him, simply figures walking away through the darkness. He was so tired. They were floating in a non-world, they were disembodied voices in a liquid night. He seemed to sink in on himself, becoming smaller and smaller.

He was small, weak, ageing backwards as the world faded away into blackness. He was young, a child, not even twenty years old, and his chubby little toddler's arms reached out for his protector. _I jus… jus wanted to be big and strong… like you… _his voice was strange and raspy.

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. So many emotions flashed across England's face that America couldn't quite catch them. There was such rage in his eyes. They looked at one another a moment, and then England simply turned around and walked away into the darkness. He was alone.

* * *

England stood at the bow of the ship, the breeze ruffling his ash-blonde hair. He hadn't spoken to anyone for hours; he simply stared out over the sea.

Wales walked slowly across the deck. Nobody had much wanted to approach England when he was like this, but Wales was reasonably sure he wanted to hear this sort of thing, or, at least, that there'd be hell to pay if someone didn't tell him. Anyways, regardless of their working relationship, Wales was still England's elder brother, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of this. It worried him.

"Captain," he called out. England didn't move.

He stood there uncertainly a moment, then called out again. "America's fever's broken. He's calling for you."

There was another long pause. Wales shifted and folded his arms uncomfortably. "Right, I'll go and.. and… do something that needs doing…"

England turned slowly. "Yes," he said, his voice hoarse. "You do that." He seemed to be looking from a long way away, like the sky and the sea weren't even really there. Wales swallowed and walked away, and left his captain to the darkness. England reached up and touched his cheeks. When he drew his hands away, he was surprised to find that they were wet.


	4. Untamed Sky

**A/N: Apologies for the wait: I was off at a wedding and as such couldn't get back to the computer until far, far too late. Then, I realised I had something else I wanted to write, so I wrote it, and found that it wasn't very good or well written, and I hadn't the energy to edit it. **

**Actually, when asked to explain the plot of TSNS, I realised that it really hasn't any plot, overall. It has a premise, and individual chapters have plots, but overall, there is very little plot. I've to remedy this. **

**So, without further ado, I present to you the plot. **

* * *

When England had first taken India, he'd ordered his brothers to tie the weaker nation to the deck and push iron spikes under his fingernails. England himself stood to the side, taking neither disgust nor pleasure from the sights before him, and calmly demanded cotton and salt. When India had emptied his wallet, England retired below-decks and left him to Scotland's ministrations.

When Hong Kong had first boarded, enticed by tales of immortality and euphoria, he'd been likewise lashed to the deck, though, in his case, England favoured deprivation of sleep, food, and the extract. Only after India had fragmented into Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh did he finally start on the Asian city with his knife.

I never knew what happened after we caught America, though. We kept him in a special room, which was locked whenever England went in, often for hours at a time. My brother refused to speak of what had transpired within. While inside, the room was strangely quiet.

England was like a knife: cold and sharp. He said and felt little, but, during those rare occasions when he found himself possessed of an uncommon rage, he suddenly and without warning became a terrifying, edged thing of pure vengeance. I'd seen him stare passively at prisoners for hours, and then, seemingly without provocation, beat them to pieces. Sometimes he would shout, but he understood the power of volume and silence, of unthinking violence and of careful calculation. He used his raised words to certain effect, and nothing more.

When my brother was enraged and silent, however, one wanted to be as far away as possible. Some people fumed. England simply went very quiet, exact, and methodical.

I don't know quite why my brothers followed him so, when he ordered such terrible things. For Scotland, it may have been some sort of savage delight in pain. Wales probably suffered a kind of fierce loyalty, and, if I were to venture a wild guess, a demonization of that which enraged his younger sibling.

As for me, Northern Ireland, my feelings are conflicted. I suppose I stay because it would be difficult to leave – I'd know, as I've tried. It's much more than that, though. England, as terrifying and evil as he is, is family, and he needs us in more ways than one, and now, more than ever. It's very difficult to come to terms with what he has done, however, so I tell myself I stay out of deference to that, and nothing more.

Unlike my brother, I know when I am lying to myself.

What can I do, aside from avoiding all thoughts pertaining to the matter? I refuse to touch the prisoners. I may be many things, but I am not a cold-blooded torturer. Instead, I scrub the blood off the decks and clean the knives the many times Scotland doesn't bother. I also clean the Room.

England always removes whatever instruments he uses against his adoptive younger brother, and cleans them himself, so I don't know what goes on in there. All I know is that it is furnished comfortably enough; there are a hard bed and rough sheets, a wooden chair, a chamber-pot, and a table with a pitcher filled with fresh water and a small towel. There was never any blood on the floor, and America always looked suspiciously clean and well-fed.

That always surprised me. America was fit and healthy, yet he never tried to escape. The others screamed and clawed at their bonds, but he sat and hung his head in the manner of one already broken. There were never any marks on his body that I could see.

Let it be noted at this point that I've no interest in this at all. I sort of understand what America's been through, and, since he's succeeded where I've failed, I sort of cheer for him.

One day, as I brought a fresh pitcher of water and a clean towel, I spoke to him.

"Where does it hurt?"

He didn't even respond, so I tried again.

"You didn't give in, did you? I thought that if you had, you wouldn't be in here – not that I think you have! Of course you haven't. It's just that once he has what he wants…" I shook my head, but America just stared straight ahead, still and silent as always. I put my hand awkwardly on his shoulder.

"I can help. There are places and ways to hit someone so that it leaves nary a mark. Tell me what he's done to you, and maybe I can talk to him. At the very least, I can put something on it to make it better."

He still refused to move, or even to acknowledge me in any way. His blue eyes stared dully from behind his spectacles.

I sighed. "I understand how you feel, lad. I've seen it before, and heaven knows we've all had our own little Troubles." I chuckled lightly. "You're America; land of golden opportunity! It might take you a while, but, as my brother says, you always do the right thing in the end, and, right now, the right thing is _not giving up_. You've not any idea how many people are watching you, watching this door, and waiting for England to come out. You're a symbol of hope to them as waits out there, tied to the deck, and they can last a little longer knowing that you haven't given what he wants."

America shifted slightly, so, encouraged, I went on. "What is it? Money? It's often money. Raw materials? Food?"

Slowly, he turned to look at me, and shook his head. "Nothing," he said in a dead, flat voice.

"What?"

"He doesn't want anything from me."

This gave me pause. "But… why? I don't understand. What reason could he have for-"

"He doesn't have a reason."

"I…" it suddenly struck me how lonely it must be in here. The little room had no windows; I brought my own source of light with me. The poor lad probably never knew when it was day and when it was night, or when England would next grace him with his presence. Yet, I'd never heard any screams. What did England _do_ with his time in here?

They understood one another. They weren't close, by any means: America had severed nearly every tie with his adopted brother during his war for independence. I could identify with that. We were both so young, broken off from those around us. I can't remember the last time I spoke with Ireland proper. America, however, understood England in a way that rivalled even Wales, and the understanding was mutual.

With the understanding came a knowledge of pain. England didn't have to beat or cut his sibling. All he needed to do was speak to him.

I hardly remember what happened next. I must have changed the water and the cloth, because I do remember wandering the deck, staring out over the sea and the sky, and seeing neither. It made perfect sense: all that was really missing was the _why_. Then again, very few things England had done on this ship made any sense at all.

I don't think that I looked back when I left the Room, but what I would have seen haunts me every night. America's eyes had been so dull and vacant when I entered the room. I'd like to think that they were the same when I left.

I always imagine, however, that those brilliant blue orbs returned ever so slightly to the colour of the untamed sky and the wild freedom that America had always represented. I hope to god they didn't. Given what happened next, the alternative, that there was a spark of hope resting within his eyes, is much, much worse. The look he would have given my back as I left, a look filled with his own brand of idealism, flashes across my lids every night.

I think that someone broke when England visited America next, but I've no idea who.

* * *

**Of note: I haven't any accents transcribed within this chapter for two basic reasons. The first is that it's a great deal of trouble to do so, and I've become a bit lazy. The second reason is that, because this is from Northern Ireland's POV, whom I've always had some measure of sympathy for, he hasn't any conception of his own accent, and, since he can understand everyone else's perfectly well, he feels no need to take note of their own. Anyways, this is all a flashback, and he remembers what people said, not how they sounded. That's basically an ass-pull for "I'm lazy". **


	5. What Manner of Monster

**A/N: I'm so, so sorry! I've been neglecting my writing so much! I feel such a sense of responsibility towards all of the two people following my stories. (I speak partially in hyperbole and partially in a sense of self deprecation). In any event, now I've a bit of an excuse: the short version is that I've broken my hand, and I can't type. Or, rather, I can't type for too long, lest my hands grow weary - this has actually been in development for at least a month. **

**Please read and review. I do change the story based on what people want to see, and what they catch. A prize to the reviewer who discovers the plot loophole I've been locked into. **

* * *

England knew something was different the moment he entered the room.

It was very, very subtle. There was no way of knowing what, exactly, extruded this air of unidentifiable change which permeated the air like the odour of roses, and he was unsure of what, exactly, he sensed. It was as if he felt someone's eyes on the back of his neck.

To the untrained observer, nothing was amiss. All of the furniture sat still in their designated locations. America still stared at the floor with dead blue eyes, his shoulders sagging. There was no trick, no trap; England was sure of that. Yet, somehow, it was as if the room's occupant was slightly more aware of his surroundings, as if he were watching England without wishing to be observed in his observation.

So, with very deliberate motions, the elder nation took from his breast pocket a great knife, which shone bright silver in the dim light, and laid it reverently on the table. England took very good care of his knives.

This instrument in particular was a beauty. It was perhaps half the length of his forearm, and the cutting edge was wickedly sharp. Something was engraved along the edge, but America could not quite make out what.

Then, England withdrew a small revolver. He confidently turned his back on his prisoner and opened the weapon's chamber. There were six slots. America could make out a sort of metallic clicking noise as he peered at the Empire's back from over his spectacles.

Then, England turned back. He slotted the chamber back into the gun and gave it a spin. Then, he laid it also down upon the table, beside the wondrous knife. Indicating the blade, he said "Hello, America. I won't be using this on you tonight."

It was a little technique he'd been thinking about. All of his methods involving his progeny required an amount of thought. Lately, America had become more and more withdrawn; as he wallowed in his own misery, feeling nothing else, it became harder and harder to get through to him. Now that something had changed, he didn't want the slightest chance that he'd be unable to cut through whatever defenses America had managed to build up since he'd last seen him.

He probably wouldn't use the knife; it was more to induce tension than anything else. These, England reflected, were the difficulties involved in breaking a broken man.

As expected, America said nothing. Somehow, England felt America's attention shift ever outward, and felt his demeanour grow more fearful.

"You'll be interested to know I've a new addition to my collection," England said conversationally. "He comes from a dark, dark continent. I should think he's glad to be on this ship and see the sun and benefit from higher civilisation."

America still said nothing, but England could see the slight taint of disgust in his eyes. That was good.

"Don't look at me like that. I do remember a certain morning I came home, and you were ever so delighted at your birthday gift. I never thought a hundred thousand slaves would light up your eyes so."

Still, the former colony said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes to those who knew how to look.

England knew very well how to look. It still wasn't enough, though. He remembered when he'd first driven America to the breaking point. He wanted that every day of his life.

"Still, it's quite a nice collection, don't you think? You know, I think it's all due to you."

America glanced up slightly.

"After all, you're bigger than me. It's only natural for me to try to catch up." He picked up the knife and examined it idly. "You, America, claim to be a nation built on idealism. In all honesty, I have to say that I respect idealism, in the same way that I respect anyone attempting to teach a lion to read. The effort and the thoughts are all well and good, but what the people want, and how the world works are all too carnivorous. We eat one another alive, we scramble for resources in the most underhanded of ways, and we care not for one another, for the humans which comprise us are selfish; this has always been the nature of things." England shrugged and put the knife back down. "The world is a funny place, though. No more imperialism, you say, because it subjugates the native people. And you think to forbid European 'interference' in the two westernmost continents." He chuckled. "It's like a child threatening an army with a stick."

Suddenly, he grasped the revolver from the table and jammed it painfully under America's chin. "How can you say that?" he spat. In a low voice, he continued, "How can you say that," he asked, his tone even, "after what you did to Native America? What we did to her was unforgivable, but you-" He chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "Your own mother. Yet, you sit on your proud ideals, and dare to think yourself better than we? You disappoint me, America. At least I know what manner of monster I am."

He adjusted his grip, and America felt the cold metal twist, pushing his tongue into the roof of his mouth. The handle squeaked imperceptibly against England's skin and slid into position.

"Do you remember a man called Regan?" England continued. "He liked to play roulette with Russia, and the Earth was their giant roulette ball. You're always the important one, aren't you? The rules that govern the rest of us don't apply to you, and you call yourself a nation based on equality."

He paused and smiled mirthlessly. "I've got a game for you. I learnt it from Russia, though, being bloody stupid, I learnt it badly, so it might be a little different from what you're," he grinned sardonically, "used to. It's called Russian Roulette."

America stiffened slightly.

"You played it with the rest of us, so I'm sure you know the rules. One bullet, six chambers. If you don't answer my question, or if I think you're lying, I pull the trigger, and…" England tilted his head and shrugged, "well, hope is a funny thing, isn't it? Now, what say you?"

He gave America a jab with the weapon, and slid it up along his jawbone, the cold metal sliding across his slick skin, until it reached his temple.

"No? No answer? Okay, then. Maybe the first chamber is empty."

"Wait!" cried America. He let out a jerky breath.

"What? Have an answer for me, have you?"

"Wait, but, you haven't-" America eyed the gun, and reworded his response to be a little more respectful. "I don't know… er… what do you want?"

This earned him one of England's more terrifying smiles. There was some quality about his face whereupon that slight, enigmatic countenance so famously displayed by the Mona Lisa became on his face the sort of thing a serial rapist wore as he sang cheerful little ditties and hacked his victims to pieces. As manic grins went, this was rather subdued, even for England, which made it even worse. "Well, I don't know. Why don't you tell me? There. That's my question." He jabbed America with the gun once more. "What do I want?"

There was a long pause. A bead of sweat ran down America's face. He didn't even have a starting point. Nothing that England had ever done thus far had made any sense whatsoever. He put effort on being inscrutable, and now he wanted America to decipher the strange codes of his behaviour. He might as well try to find the underlying equations that governed coin tosses.

He was at a loss. He'd come to the point where he had no more options. He could either say nothing and die, or answer the question, but he couldn't answer the question. That left no way out, no options, and no future.

No. He mustn't give up. He kept repeating to himself "you're a symbol, don't give in. You're a symbol, don't give in. You're a symbol…"

The people outside were watching the door, Northern Ireland had said. If England gets what he wants, they lose hope. It was hard to imagine that his death would boost their morale, or that he'd care much if it did.

Anyways, this assumed that he actually knew what the hell the sea captain wanted. As symbols went, he was a rather poor one, at that. Then again, his giving in and living a little longer also depended on his knowing whatever the fucking hell it was that England wanted. It wasn't just about the question. Even North had assumed he'd understood his options. He was navigating an invisible maze, and the walls were coated with poison. Anyways, what the _hell_ did England want?

He tried to calm his breathing, because symbols had to look calm and collected, even as they were screaming on the inside "_WHAT THE FUCKING HELL DO YOU EVEN _WANT_, GODDAMNIT!_"

England raised an eyebrow. "No answer?"

"Wait! I-"

"Sorry! Time's up."

"No, wait, you don't-"

He watched in slow motion as England's finger tightened on the trigger, as the hammer slid across, as the chamber rotated, as the bullet, driven by motion and the explosion of gunpowder…

…failed to penetrate his skull. The chamber had been empty.

America realised the soft, high pitched keening noise he'd heard had been emanating from his throat. He stopped squeaking and let out a shaky breath.

"Well, it seems your luck has carried you thus far," said England. "Now."

He cocked the weapon once more and pressed the end to America's temple. Softly, he said "What do I want, America?"

America's head was far too busy tallying probabilities. He'd a one in six chance before, and now, it'd gone up to a one in five. Yet, if he survived that one, the probability that the bullet was in the next chamber was one in four, then one in three…

Some part of him hadn't believed that England would pull the trigger. A tiny, childish, naïve part of his mind had refused to believe the worst of his mentor. After all he'd done already, it was stupid, he knew, to try giving England the benefit of the doubt, but it was equally hard to forget all England had done for him, the money, the support, the military action in his defence, _his defence!_ He'd broken his wrist carving wooden soldiers for America's enjoyment. Even that day in 1783, when America had shown how far he'd been willing to go for his independence, England had raised the gun to his head, and stopped.

He couldn't pull the trigger then. What had changed? Why now?

Apparently, that England, the England that young America had known and loved, was dead and gone. This England could kill him without even a thought.

He tried not to imagine what would happen when the gun went off, but he couldn't help but visualise. It'd spin as it exited the barrel, drilling and smashing its way into his head, where the bone would be shattered at the point of impact. From there, it would rip through his brain, causing waves of damage to tear across the mass – brainmatter is only so much jelly, after all. Then, it'd smash through the back of his skull, slowed, slightly, by its path through his head. He wondered if it would hurt, or if it'd be over with so quickly he wouldn't feel anything, and suddenly appear, more startled than anything else, before whatever gods attended fallen nations.

England raised his enormous dark eyebrows, and America's brain went faster into a whirlwind of thought, but was unable to concentrate. If there's a one in two chance that the bullet is in the penultimate chamber then that means, based on his reasoning before, that it's certain to be in the last chamber. And, if there's only one bullet, and it'd definitely in the last chamber, then it can't be in the… no, wait, that doesn't work. But then, how…?

_Click_.

England pulled back the hammer again. "This is getting tiresome, America," he said. "I don't know why I don't just shoot until you're dead, and then be done with this silliness." He sighed and made to fire the gun again.

"Wait!" said America urgently.

England paused. Another bead of sweat slid down America's face. Then, slowly, England's finger loosened on the trigger. America stared at it, unblinkingly, and let out the breath he had been holding. Then, he realised that he had to actually say something now. Damn.

"Er…" he began shakily. "You want me dead," he hazarded.

"Wrong," said England cheerfully, and made to pull the trigger.

"_BUT_", America continued. There was a pregnant pause.

England pulled his finger off of the trigger again, and America started breathing again. It was very hard to concentrate when his heartbeat pounded in his ears so. "But," America continued, without shouting this time, "not quite immediately." He paused, wracked his brains and rewracked them, failed to think of something, and just shut his eyes helplessly, waiting for the click or the horrible noise.

The gun shifted slightly. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up at England.

The older nation's eyebrows were upraised, and he looked… well, he looked bored as always, but also somehow intrigued. "Do go on," he prompted, sounding mildly interested.

"Oh, I…" America drew a shaky breath and tried to get his thoughts together again. Another bead of sweat ran into his eye, but he didn't dare reach up and rub it out. "You…" he looked around the room helplessly for some sort of inspiration. "You… keep me in this room… with a… table… knife… I… gun, and a knife, and a gun, with bullets…" He took a breath, and forced his attention away from the pressing matters on his temple. "You keep me in this room, away from the other prisoners… and… away from them… you do that because I'm different from the rest of them, and… that's because I was… I was the first," he realised. Gaining strength, he plunged on. "I was one of the first colonies, and I left you on my own, and we hated each other for a long time after that. But that makes me interesting. I was your colony, and then I became a world power. I don't think any of your other colonies ever did that. But it's more than that. You want something from me; you told me as much yourself."

He risked a look up at England. He looked impassive as always, but somehow, perhaps amused. Emboldened, America continued. "I was founded on idealistic principles that totally redefined the relationship between government and people."

"Oi!" cried England. America winced and shrank from the cold metal pressed to his head, but England seemed rather good natured. "What about the Magna Charta? We gave rights and representation to the people who count as people."

America ignored this and tried to catch his train of thought once more. "You weren't built on this sort of thing – it was all wars and… er… whatever you came from."

"Angles and the Saxons" England prompted.

"Yeah. Them guys. That's why you're better at math than me," America said quickly, desperate not to lose his thread. "But anyways, every time I don't act according to my founding principles, it hurts you. You want to believe that the world can be a good place, and the American dream can really exist, because if it can, then maybe you don't have to torture other nations and make them into your colonies, and everyone can be happy, and,"

Curious as to how his speech was being received, America risked a look up at England's face. It was still a mask of boredom, but whatever was behind it seemed to have simply shut down. That wasn't a good sign.

"And… and yeah," America finished lamely.

England tilted his head slightly, as if he were thinking about it. "You're saying that I want to be like you, even though you're a bloody stupid git, because it means that I don't have to be an arsehole all the time, and that I want you to not be a bloody stupid git, to show that you can be idealistic and not an idiot at the same time," he said.

"Well," America tried to remember what he had just said. "Well, yeah, more or less."

"Interesting idea," England mused. "Very interesting." He seemed to think about it for a moment. Then, however, England came back from his ponderings, looked at America brightly, and grinned. "But wrong."

"_WAIT!_" screamed America, but it was too late. England tightened his grip on the gun and fired.


	6. Falling

**A/N: Motivated by all the reviews, I've decided to torture a new chapter out of my soul. As is now more evident than ever, this is a very dark AU, remember. As it's my own universe, I can more or less do whatever I wish to the characters. I daresay some might be more than a little angry at some of the choices I've made which are evident within this chapter, and I may even receive more than a few reviews telling me this (flames, I daresay? Nay, I overestimate my own popularity). The short answer is: deal with it. **

**I apologise for the length (or lack thereof) of this piece, but it sort of fit, and, anyways, I'm updating early, so you lot ought to be thankful. **

**Note that I'm still caught within the plot logic loophole, and the prize still awaits for all those who guess what it is. In a story like this, however, when I just sort of add on whenever I feel it is necessary, it's harder to discern the plot and event order. **

* * *

England shifted his stance, tightened his grip, and fired.

America closed his eyes tightly. There was a great horrible noise and a whooshing sensation. He screamed, he thought. It was hard to tell; a rhythmic shudder shook the world, as the heartbeat of a giant celestial clock, and the sound drowned out all else. His chest felt as if it would burst. The terror hadn't abated, but he knew he was floating, floating, rising, upwards toward a bright place from which he tried to swim away despite that he was curiously drawn toward it. It was a feeling of release and nonphysical pain. Before he could quite reach it, there was a tipping sensation, as one ascending the stairs in the dark feels when he thinks that there is one more step than there actually is, a sort of sick surprise, and he began falling backwards, clawed hands reaching upwards for just a grasp of paradise. A ragged cry ripped itself from his throat, and he bawled for what he had lost.

The wind and other things he dared not think of screamed in utter agony in his ears, less a sound than a feeling. Above it all floated a high pitched keening, something that could have been angelsong, if angels screeched discordant melodies woven from pure terror.

The tears spilt from between tightly shut lids, tears of unpleasant surprise and loss and pain and misery. A chanting of sorts began somewhere in his mind. "You've failed, you've failed, you've failed". It grew louder and louder, till it was a shout, a cry, that everywhere, every being shouted at the top of its lungs.

"_YOU'VE FAILED, YOU'VE FAILED, YOU'VE FAILED, YOU'VE FAILED"_.

He felt he'd sunk lower than anything before, like his soul had fallen and been dragged through the mud, dragged by his own inability. So many were depending on him, and he'd proved himself unworthy. Yet, still he fell through the airy ether, to depths yet unheard of. Yet, he deserved it all. He had failed.

And, suddenly, there was a terrible pain in his back. He had hit the bottom.


	7. Empty

**A/N: For reasons that will soon be evident, you are going to want to kill me slowly and painfully. My hand is also nearly healed, so the next chapter shall be monstrously large, and take a correspondingly longer time to post. Perhaps I shall split it into two chapters. **

* * *

England tightened his grip, pulled the trigger, hooked his foot round the chair legs, and yanked.

The gun went: _click_.

The chair tipped back, and the moment seemed to hang in the air like a silvery raindrop. America balanced for a moment on two wooden legs, and his face morphed from shock to terror to utter despair within that single instant. It was beautiful.

Then, the metaphorical drop fell and shattered into water. The moment was over. The chair smashed into the ground, and America's head landed with a _crack_ against the floor.

England hurried over to his side, grasped his head with his hands, and growled menacingly.

"America,"

America hacked and coughed, trying to inflate his lungs. England tightened his grip, certain he was causing the former colony pain, but not really caring.

"_America,_" he growled once more. A part of him was idly surprised at his own anger. He'd never lost this much control in quite this way before. Most of him, however, felt the urge to smash America's head into the flooring. It was an exhilarating feeling, one of power and strength and wildness that he'd never let himself feel before, and it was a feeling that would end immediately if fulfilled.

So, England resisted and soared on the wings of elated rage, grinding his teeth and staring at America's pathetic convulsions. His hands tightened their grip until America cried out in pain. Then, in a whirl of fury, he released America's face roughly.

Breathing heavily, he rose and leaned against the wall of the cabin. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and feasted his eyes upon America's prone form. England's face wore an odd half smile and his eyes narrowed in an expression of grim joy.

He could do anything, now. It was like flying higher and higher on the red wings of a merciless god.

Then tears began to flood down America's face and into his ears. He let out a whimpering sound, the sort of noise a small child, without understanding of its fate, would make. It might have had words in it, the way America added emphasis and inflection, but it was far too primal, too raw, too broken. His chest shook still, but now it trembled with uncontrolled sobs. England had won. He'd driven America beyond the breaking point once more.

At this, England felt the savage joy drain out of him, till only the wrath remained.

There was nothing further for him to do here. England replaced his knife, eyes filled with darkness and fury. He struggled to replace his gun within his coat, but his hands were trembling far too much. He hated the trembling – it looked weak and uncontrolled, and even his iron will could not halt the shivering. Eventually, he simply gave up and turned to leave. Suddenly clumsy hands fumbled with the doorknob, and, in his blind anger, he nearly snapped it off.

England took several deep breaths. He needed to control himself. This was ridiculous. He mentally went through every muscle in his body and forced it to relax. His jaw slackened somewhat, and his fists self-consciously unfurled.

That's it. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Let the mind return to perfect stillness, without thoughts or emotions.

England pushed everything out of his mind, filling it instead with the sounds and smells around him. His clothing wrapped around him, soft and warm. Minute air currents played against his skin, and there was the faint odour that hangs about rooms built from fine timber. Almost without conscious thought, his hand reached out and closed around the doorknob, perfectly steady. The handle was smooth and cool, though it warmed quickly to his touch. He twisted and pushed, and felt the door disturb the air, and the light on his face. The ship around him creaked, the waves shifted the floor and swelled from outside, and, beyond that, he could hear the faint cries of the seagulls. Behind him, America still whimpered and wept…

No, no, he didn't. It took England a minute to place it, but there was a definite difference in the quality of sound emanating from America's throat. It wasn't sobbing, though there was a similarity in the jerky texture to the noise, and it wasn't nearly despondent enough to be whimpering.

Somehow… somehow, England realised, it was laughter.

He turned slowly. America still lay upon the floor, covered in sweat and misery. He chuckled weakly. England felt a wave of cold wash over him, though a tiny point just behind the bridge of his nose remained red-hot.

America's diaphragm shook uncontrollably. He knew that probably his brain was now so soaked in adrenaline that it was a veritable chemical cocktail of hormonal secretions. The tension unwinding within him was bound to make his reactions rather skewed. However, watching England as he fumbled, unable to move without shaking, and unable to even understand why, America couldn't help but laugh.

"What… what you want…" America giggled feebly, drunk on his own adrenaline.

England glared. He stood framed in the open doorway, and so much light spilt in through the entrance that all America could see was a sea of blinding whiteness. The rays caught England's hair in a halo of fire, and his face, though shrouded in darkness, displayed the divine wrath of a vengeful god.

America had never seen anything more beautiful.

America had never seen anything more terrible.

Yet, riding on an epinephrine-induced high, America found that he had never seen anything more comical. Tears streamed from his eyes, drenching his spectacles and obscuring his vision. "The gun… the chair… you knew… you want," he coughed, his back still aching from impact, "You want me… me to… prove you wrong…"

England stared at him a moment. Neither was quite sure what happened next, but America remembered a slash of red pain across his cheek, more a feeling of triumph than betrayal, and then England was gone.

The gun lay on the ground beside the door where England had probably thrown it.

Slowly, painfully, America got up and tried to ignore the agony blossoming from the back of his head, and the way his vision swam drunkenly before his eyes. He must have stumbled, because he didn't remember kneeling down, and suddenly, he was lying beside the weapon.

He didn't really need to, but he checked anyways. The chamber was completely empty.

* * *

**A/N: Not to detract from the mood I've created, but I believe the proper phrase to say (type) at this point in time is one I've learnt from my eleven-year-old neighbour. **

***ahem* _Psych!_**


	8. Bedside

**A/N: Apologies: this chapter is extraordinarily long, but I couldn't cut it. It ties a lot of things together. **

**Challenge: I've found the image uploader, and I wanted dearly a cover for this story, but I couldn't think of any good scenes. Do you have any suggestions? **

**Oh, and forgive any errors in this chapter. I'd a very long week. **

* * *

England knelt at America's bedside, and dabbed at his face with a damp cloth.

It was rather silly that everything had come to this, really.

At the very least, he had to confess certain feelings of irritation that he hadn't noticed America's illness until far too late. That didn't mean that he actually cared about the git: far to the contrary. All the work he'd done, all the progress he'd made, everything would have to stop for the duration of the US's sickness. In any event, he didn't want the nation to die: after all, America was a great source of entertainment, and England often lay awake at night thinking of new and more inventive ways to break the other nation. His concern was only to himself.

He also suffered not from any misplaced feelings of fellowship – after all, about two hundred years ago, America had shown England what he'd thought of their feelings of mutual fellowship. The only thing he wanted from America was revenge.

America needed to suffer, and, to suffer, he had to live. Suffering comes through loss, and England had no interest in someone with nothing left to lose.

Now, his only priority was making America well again, not because he minded at all that America was ill, as that was just silly, but because the younger nation had to live through all sorts of terrors dredged up from the depths of his past, and this bothered England deeply. Or, rather, it bothered England deeply because he wasn't able to derive the sort of enjoyment he usually did when America confronted his demons. These illness-born nightmares were too uncontrolled, and England didn't like things he couldn't control. This much was clear to anyone.

Therefore, the most logical choice was to provide America with the best amenities that this ship had to offer. England had given up his own cabin, because he slept easier each night knowing that America was as comfortable as possible, obviously because that meant England could continue the torture as soon as possible. He most certainly did _not_ lie awake every night with the image of America, pale and suffering, burnt into his eyelids.

Well, he hadn't been sleeping much; that was true, but that was because he stayed at all times at America's bedside, and that damned chair was extraordinarily uncomfortable. He had to see about repairing it, or getting a new one. He dearly wished he didn't need to wait beside America. Every time he looked at those sky-blue eyes, or that untidy straw-blonde hair, England was reminded of the depth of his hatred for the other nation. Every time he heard that idiotically nasal voice mangling his beautiful language, England swore vengeance.

The worst part was his damned persistence. The nascent America had been pathetic – laughable, even. In the beginning, he'd nearly fallen apart so many times, and England thought: fine. I'll show you how much you depend on me to survive. You need me, and I most certainly do not need you.

Yet, somehow, he _had_ survived.

His persistence had carried over into far too many aspects of his personality. Was that not that one of his mottos? 'Never give up, never surrender'? No, no, that was something else; the man had such an insufferable pride in his own cinematic industry.

_You want… want me to… prove you wrong…_

He never knew when to stop. If he had left well enough alone in that room, on that day, and hadn't said those stupid and obviously false eight words, England wouldn't have decided he was tired of the damned little beast, and thrown him out onto the deck. And, if England hadn't done that, he could have kept a much closer eye on America, and noticed when he'd exhibited the first symptoms of his illness. Yes, this was all America's fault. 'Prove you wrong' indeed!

He had been in such a rage as he'd stormed from the room, his hands clutching the red-streaked blade so tightly that his knuckles were white and bloodless. England went very pale when angry.

When Wales had seen him, his eyes became very grim. Wales always had been the protective one. When England ordered America tied to the deck, he nodded, understanding immediately. He had then undertaken America's physical and psychological torture from that point on, hoping that it would relieve the sort of cloud that had come over his brother, but England found he no longer had the stomach to witness America's destruction.

It didn't make any sense! Of course he'd stomach enough to witness America's destruction. He'd dreamt of nothing else ever since the man had revolted. Though he had the body of but one man, he had the heart and stomach of a nation, and the nation England, too, and he thought foul scorn that any douche like America should dare… well… how dare he do whatever it was he dared? His very existence made England want to kill someone very slowly.

Therefore, for several days, England sulked. He avoided his brothers and found solstice in the bottle. Only when he was intoxicated did the world make sense to England. He rarely slept, though he was often unconscious. Most days, he simply lay on his bed, neglecting even to undress, and stared at the ceiling.

Of course he didn't want America to prove him wrong. That would be one of the greatest insults he could think of. It was a wonder the man could muster the intelligence to lace his own shoes. If America made him look stupid, then he must be stupid indeed. It was not dissimilar to being called evil by Hitler.

Despite this, he was curiously drawn toward the upper deck. Pulled by equal and opposite forces, England languished in his cabin, incapable of decision, or even of understanding.

Unable to stand the pressure anymore, England one morning arose early, cleaned himself, shaved for the first time in days, and dressed himself, choosing his clothes with some amount of care. Then, he ventured upwards.

Three times he nearly turned back. Three times, he faltered. Even at the threshold of the upper deck, he hesitated, his fingers nearly touching the doorknob. Beyond the door lay all his hopes and all his fears. Somehow, America was at the centre of it all. England waited, uneasy, frightened of what he might see, and, perhaps, of what he wouldn't.

In the end, his resolve was stronger than his apprehension. What had he to be frightened of? He wasn't in any imminent danger of bodily harm, and there was really no mystery behind the force pulling him toward America. He merely wished to see the death of an ideal. He wanted to look into America's eyes and see the naïve idealism the man held so dear to his heart torn away forever. Holding his head high, England threw open the door and walked onto the deck.

It was midmorning, and the sun shone through the mist and the cool morning air. Wales and Scotland stood over the mutilated lump that once was India, and he shook his head in disappointment and disgust. India had already broken; he had already given all that he could have given.

Base physical pain held no interest for England; it was only so many cuts and scrapes after all. That which he lived for, the crowning and achievement of every successful session, was hope. He worked his subjects until they reacted perfectly to his every motion, and, together, like the violinist and the well-made instrument, they sang melodies of hope and despair, of desire and disappointment, of pathetic misery and loss. He did sometimes use physical pain in order to achieve the level of thwarted hope that he desired, but the best results came from those he never even had to touch.

They had done well to put off America until the end, but India hadn't anything left that they could take away. So, England sent his brothers away and looked a moment at the broken Asian nation before him. India didn't even cry, didn't even react to the man who'd sent his torturers away.

No. This wasn't what he wanted at all. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, whether gratitude, relief, or happiness at the presence of a protector, but it wasn't this. England slit the man's throat quickly.

The other two, on the other hand, looked very relieved, and England felt such elation as he hadn't felt in over two hundred years. These were now his perfect instruments, so he played them, and played them well. His methods were perhaps more crude than usual, and the red soiled his garments in tiny specks, but there was such hope and such despair and such confusion in America's eyes that England decided all this was worth it.

The most beautiful thing, England decided, was that America had held on all through the ordeal. He'd one tiny spark of hope which England simply could not destroy no matter how he tried. He would have to be careful and inventive and very, very clever, and every day, what joy at the challenge he now faced! When America finally did crack, after giving England months of delight, how sweetly the empire would treasure every tear, every sob, and every wail.

Only then, when there was nothing more to be had from the former colony, would America finally die. He wouldn't have the strength to even beg for it, then, and England would be left satisfied at a job well done. Of course, he would feel a slight sadness that it couldn't have lasted longer, but he knew better than anyone that all good things end.

A feeble noise snapped England back to the present and the cabin, and the ill nation beside him. He dabbed at America's cheeks once more with the cloth. The stricken man was mumbling.

"Ay deek ayon Ingan indeyouds," he muttered.

"Yes, yes," England replied. America had been mumbling like this for a while, now. This was nothing new. The thing to do was keep replacing the damp cloth upon his forehead and remember that he hadn't any emotional investment in this whatsoever.

America began shifting. He rolled first to one side, then to the other. "Aygan deedin! Aygan deedin! Cherstmeh aygan deedin, yadaggair aersolf, Gerrol Wasnten," he slurred.

England clicked his tongue and attempted to replace the cloth. It was nearly dry. Irritated, he soaked it in water once again, and tried to replace it. America, however, had other plans. His thrashings became more violent, and, in an especially extravagant gesture, his arm slid across and knocked over the jug England had prepared. It smashed against the floor amid an ever-expanding puddle of water and several clean towels England had had ready. Grumbling, the captain made to clean it up, as America cried out.

"Yoogasht meh, c'ntrlled meh, an toogwah m'eedom. I'n pay f'r y'r werrs, oyesh, buh I can' have ashay i' m'own fu'chre?

England froze, hands paused halfway through scooping ceramic pieces from the floor.

"Gimme lib'rty o gi' me death!"

Oh, yes, he remembered this part. Well, he didn't specifically remember _this_ part, but he knew of it. Of course America would harp on his early colonial days. From the way he went on about it, one would think that they'd never interacted outside of the Revolt and the World Wars.

America's thrashings grew worse. Cautiously, England stood up and regarded his former colony.

The United States looked terrible. He was very, very thin, and England could see the individual ribs of his chest where he'd shoved aside the blankets. His face was pale and sallow, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

His eyes were currently open, but their colour was dull and washed out. Unseeing, they flickered madly, seeing not the cabin, but some nightmarish memory dredged up from the dawn of his recollections.

"America," England asked carefully, "what year is it?"

The roving orbs caught onto England's face, flickered across it without recognition. America attempted something that it took England a few moments to realise was a sad attempt at laughter. His breath forced its way through a mucus-clogged throat. He hacked a while, a thick, congealing, yellow substance sliding from between his lips. England winced in disgust and wiped it away.

"Tha's why I'll beah you," America said, in a surprisingly clear voice. "I's se'enteen eighty two. How d'you expect to controh me if you can't even r'member the year?"

England didn't really know what to say. "You're delirious," he tried, but then America's eyes grew unfocused and he slid back into the depths of his early recollections.

England suddenly was unsure of what to do with his hands. He looked down and remembered why he'd stood up. He knelt and scooped up the clay shards. Turning around, he told America, "Wait here," though he wasn't quite sure what else the ill nation would do.

He rushed outside and ordered fresh water, plenty of damp cloths, medicines, and everything else he could think of. He must have seemed in a right state, for Wales broke the tacit agreement between them and asked what had happened.

Scotland cracked his knuckles. "I ken. It's tha America. D'ye want me tae teach him a lesson?"

"No!" England shouted.

There was a pause. Scotland looked shocked, then suspicious. "No," England said, softly. "He, er," A moment, he was quite unsure what to say, but at the thought of Scotland 'teaching' America, a sort of anger filled him. "He's mine" he said savagely. "No-one is to disturb us."

He rushed the supplies back to his cabin immediately. America still lay, thrashing. Hands shaking, England laid a damp cloth across America's forehead, but one of the prone nation's errant gesticulations caught England across the jaw. Even ill and weakened, America was incredibly strong.

England growled and raised his hand against his younger charge, but America caught his upraised fist, and sat up. He ran his fingers through hair distorted by its time against a pillow, and looked around the cabin, as if seeing it for the first time.

He grabbed England's fist tightly between both hands, and whispered "Britain".

"America?" England decided to ignore his anger for now, since for once America seemed lucid.

"You were gone. I thought…"

England leaned forward. "What did you think?"

"Please. Please…"

The grip tightened. England could feel the bones of his hand compressing.

"What?" England shook his head "I don't know what to do."

America shut his eyes tightly. "I'm so scared, so scared," he whimpered.

England put his hand on top of America's, and, mindful that he could no longer feel several fingers, gingerly gave a little squeeze. "Everything will be fine. I'm here."

America opened his eyes and looked at England. "I know," he said quietly. "You're here. You're always here. You hurt me, and sometimes you're nice, but that's just so you can be even meaner later." America's voice built. "You're here and it _hurts_! Why can't you leave me alone? I don't need you," America was shouting by this point.

"No, no, I don't-"

"What about when I was a kid? The coat, the soldiers, the books? Were you just trying to make me trust you? I thought you loved me!"

"_America_," England tried desperately.

"All I want is my freedom," America cried out raggedly. "I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"

England's heart sank. He remembered very well this point in their shared history. America was delirious again.

America jerked, his back arching so much England thought it would snap. With a cry, he slammed himself back onto the bed, and kicked his legs out.

"I…I…" England stammered. America paid him no heed, but vomited messily all over the bed.

"No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" cried England. He grasped America about the shoulders and shook him violently. "Stop!"

America's eyes opened and found England's, wide with that sort of clarity that came only with deepest delirium. The pupils were so dilated that there was hardly any iris left, and they struggled to focus on England.

This enraged the Empire; he threw America's shoulders against the bed. "You idiot! It's not 1783! We're not fighting: you're in my quarters, and I'm _trying_ to make you better. Why can't you listen to me!"

America blinked in confusion. "I… I don't understand."

"You're already independent! You've already won! Why can't you see? You can't die! You're a world superpower! It isn't fair. I _hate_ you!" England slammed his arms into the bed on either side of America's head. "I hate everything about you! Now, you've to fall bloody ill, worse than ill, and vomit all over _my_ sheets and _my_ bedroom, and you haven't the gratitude and common decency to get better, you little twat! If you die, I swear I'll fucking resurrect you so I can kill you myself!"

America blinked again, and his eyes grew unfocused. England roared and kicked the nearby wall with all of his strength. It snapped and splintered unsatisfactorily. With an almost inhuman effort, England managed to control himself.

Breathing heavily, he turned to face the bed. "Useless," he snapped.

Fading, America's eyes were now half closed, but still he spoke.

"I jus… jus wanted to be big and strong… like you," he rasped.

England stopped and stared, hands working themselves into white-knuckled fists. He realised that he was covered in vomit.

Without a word, he simply turned around and walked out the door.


End file.
